


Creatures Great and Small

by IrenaK



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dogs, Ferrets, Gen, Pigs, Spiders, the beauty and wonder of the animal kingdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:26:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrenaK/pseuds/IrenaK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the bees, the chickens and Clyde, it's practically a menagerie in the brownstone.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>Five times Sherlock brought home a stray and one time Joan did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Creatures Great and Small

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bond_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bond_Girl/gifts).



> Thanks to Angie for the beta.

**

Balfour

**

Joan finally got Sherlock to stop leaving the ferret cage empty and open in the middle of the living room after she threatened to toss the animal in with him when he was showering.

“That strikes me as more punishing to the ferret than to me,” he pointed out.

“He could use the bath and I've seen what he does when startled,” she said. “I think it'll work out fine.”

Sherlock sniffed, picked up the little brown and white animal - “Come along, Balfour,” - and proceeded to ignore her the rest of the day. The next morning the cage was tucked discreetly into a corner of the kitchen, so she counted it as a win.

Until he started letting it climb up onto the kitchen table.

“I'm teaching him how to properly jump,” he said, because obviously this was the sort of rational excuse a full-grown man used to justify his actions.

She watched Balfour wiggle his tail end in cat-like anticipatory glee, scrunch up his haunches and then spring toward the countertop.

He landed on the floor with an impressive 'splat.'

As he tottered somewhat drunkenly back toward Sherlock's leg, she said nothing to her partner, merely stared at him until he straightened his spine and said, “Well, obviously we have to practice a bit more.”

“Try to do less practicing on the places where we eat breakfast,” she answered and decided it was time to find Balfour a home with an _actual_ thirteen-year-old boy instead of someone who merely tended to act like one.

 

**

Zoidberg

**

“Wait, wait, don't open-” was the only warning Marcus Bell got before he did, in fact, open the living room door and a small, white _something_ leaped at him.

He made a sound between a yelp and a sort of 'gaaaah!' noise and tried to divest himself of the _something_ that he was pretty sure was not supposed to be on his suit jacket. Which did not succeed in getting the _something_ off of him but did get Sherlock worked up enough to take a flying leap over an ottoman in order to seize his arms.

“Stop, stop, you're going to shake it off!”

Marcus froze. “Shake. What. Off.”

“The spider.” Sherlock slowly lowered Marcus's arms, peering intensely at the seams and crinkles in his jacket.

“Spider?” Later, Marcus would deny that his voice cracked on the word. It would be a lie, but he would deny it.

“I'm really sorry, Marcus,” Joan told him. She held a small glass terrarium in her arms, its door sitting at a cock-eyed angle. “The hinge broke and he escaped.”

“Why do you have a spider?” Marcus asked. “Why do you have some sort of mutant flying spider escape artist?”

Sherlock shifted his arms back down, apparently satisfied Marcus wasn't going to squash this spider under his armpits. “Don't be absurd. Despite its _volans_ designation, peacock spiders can only leap, not fly. And I received it from a doctoral candidate studying them at NYU. She was concerned for his safety.”

“Concerned. For the spider's safety.”

“Yes. Ah! Stay quite still, Detective, it's sitting on your shoulder.” Marcuse followed that sage advice and froze in something that was absolutely not skin-crawling terror. “It seems this particular little fellow was thoroughly underwhelming the females in the study with his mating displays and they kept trying to kill him. Hence why he was given the unfortunate moniker of Zoidberg.”

Marcus's eyes flickered toward Joan, who shrugged. “Apparently it makes more sense if you watch cartoons.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sherlock made a sound that sounded suspiciously like cooing. “Actually, speaking of Zoidberg's inept attempts at wooing, it appears he's quite taken with you, Detective. He's displaying his abdominal flaps. Have you ever seen the colors of a peacock spider's abdomen?”

Marcus gritted his teeth. “Can't say that I have.”

“They're really rather spectacular and the mating dance itself is quite the absorbing sight. You're in fact very lucky to be witnessing this so far removed from their natural habitat.”

“Yay,” Marcus said.

 

**

Belle

**

In the end, there were twenty-three living dogs recovered from the fighting ring. Seventeen of them were put down almost immediately, either from aggression or because they were too injured to recover. From the discovery of the scene to the vet's pronouncements, Sherlock's face remained expressionless, but the type of expressionless Joan had learned masked a deep and very cold rage. It was how he had looked when he decided he wanted to kill Moran. How he looked after he'd beaten Oscar and relapsed out of some combination of self-loathing and spite.

She hated it, hated what it did to him, hated how helpless it made her feel. 

She came down to the kitchen in the middle of an unhappy, restless night to make herself a hot tea, only to find Sherlock already awake. Or still awake. Tough to say.

He sat on the floor, long legs bent and arms drawn loosely around them. His eyes stayed focused on the half-sized kennel lying three feet from him. A blanket had been thrown over the back half to provide a little shaded cave, but she could still see the small, brown lump curled up in the darkest corner. Occasionally, it made a sad whine and shifted a little before lying still again.

“Hey,” she said, hunkering down next to him. He nodded, but didn't turn away from his quiet vigil. “How's she doing?”

“Afraid,” he answered. “She doesn't want to come out of her kennel. She thinks I'll hurt her.”

“Yeah.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Apparently that's typical, especially if a bait dog was taken as a puppy.”

“I know.” His fingers, long, elegant and made for music, tightened momentarily around the loose fabric of his pajama bottoms. “Her life has been terribly cruel and unfair.”

“But it's better now,” she told him, which was true.

“Perhaps. Or maybe to her there isn't any difference.” Which was also true.

“Give it time,” she said. “If we can rehabilitate chickens, we can help a dog.”

His mouth turned down, eyes cast to the floor, his unspoken response. She gave his knee a kind, gentle squeeze in return. His hand stole over hers, warm against her skin. When she started to pull back, he held her fast for a moment before letting go.

“I'll make us some tea,” she said and rose. He remained behind, a pale shadow in the dark, oppressive night.

 

**

Victor and Vespa

**

Afterward, they both agreed the hedgehogs had been a mistake and decided to never again talk about them or the unspeakable things they had attempted to do to Clyde.

 

**

Wilbur

**

The thing about living in the hipster central area of Brooklyn is that you could do nothing more that sit out on your stoop with an hundred-and-twenty pound kunekune pig resting next to you and suddenly you were the coolest thing anyone had ever seen. Joan had already had her picture taken three times and two girls in leggings and Uggs had asked her if she wanted to be featured on their fashion blog. She politely declined, but directed them toward an animal sanctuary outside the city that could use some extra exposure. Last she saw of them, they were Googling the address and talking about the best ways to tie it into a vegan leather feature.

“Kids,” she remarked to Wilbur, who grunted and accepted a scratch behind his ears.

“Miss Watson.”

She sighed. All balmy afternoons with a pig, it seemed, must come to an end.

“Mr. Holmes,” she answered and knew she had been living with Sherlock for far too long when she had to bite back an urge to add, _I'm surprised to see you. The Imperial March wasn't playing._

Holmes, Sr. merely raised an eyebrow at the pig. “I see Sherlock's tendency to take in every homeless creature to cross his path has not abated during his sojourn in New York.”

Tempted to take insult but deciding that was likelier meant as a dig at his son rather than her, she just told him, “Sherlock's out. He's walking Belle and probably won't be back for another hour.”

“Yes, of course, how goes the rehabilitation?”

Neither she nor Sherlock had mentioned the dog's history to him and yet it didn't surprise her that he knew. Morland was nothing if not thorough when it came to his estranged family. “Fine. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes.” He walked up to the stairs so he can hand her a small, but thick portfolio. “I've run across something that might be of interest to Sherlock. If he wishes to pursue it, all of the pertinent details are in there.”

Wilbur leaned over and started to worry at Morland's loafers, fascinated by the little tassels. To the man's credit, he completely ignored the animal.

“You could have just e-mailed this,” Joan pointed out, disliking how heavy the folio felt in her hand.

Morland smiled without revealing his teeth. “I suppose I could have.”

“Next time you probably should.”

“I'll certainly take your advice into consideration.”

Never had Joan been so politely condescended to in her life, but that seemed par for the course for their interactions. She lifted the folio and said, “I'll let him know. No guarantees he'll take it on, though.”

“Quite alright. It's enough to know he has it.” He inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Miss Watson.”

“Yeah, you too.” He turned his back on her, walking away as casually as he'd walked up. That didn't stop her from noticing his left shoe was down a tassel, though.

“Good pig,” she said. Wilbur oinked happily and continued to chew on his new prize.

 

**

+1

**

Leaving early Christmas Day turned out to be a good idea as the traffic on the RFK was minimal heading toward Westchester. But as the city gave way to highway and then to suburban hills, Sherlock seemed to grow more distraught. Nothing particularly egregious, just a gradual retreat into silence and ramrod straight posture, eyes focused all too intently on the road ahead.

“It's going to be fine,” she said.

“I'm not concerned,” he said, which was such a bald-faced lie Joan only scoffed in response. “Not concerned for me,” he clarified.

Joan glanced into the rearview mirror, spying Belle sleeping on the passenger seat. She'd stared out the window at the passing traffic for the first fifteen minutes before apparently growing bored and curling up into a contented doggy ball.

“Oren's got a nice house and a large yard. And Gabrielle already adores her. Belle will love it.”

“We're leaving her in yet another foreign place with yet another new set of faces. How is that in anyway fair to the dog?”

“Yeah, that really looks like one concerned pooch.”

He glared out the side window. “I'll thank you not to patronize me.”

She sighed. He really was sensitive sometimes. “Sherlock, this is a good thing. She's going to be living in a place that gives her a chance to run around and dig up gardens and be a _dog._ It's why we helped her in the first place, right?” When he didn't answer, she prodded, “Right?”

He titled his head, though the stiffness in his posture didn't change. “Of course.”

“She'll be fine.”

“Yes.”

She held out the hand closest to him, palm up, waiting. He didn't do anything immediately, but there wasn't a person on the planet Joan couldn't out-stubborn, Sherlock included. He slipped his hand into hers, interlocking their fingers and pressing their palms together.

“You'll be fine, too,” she said.

He remained silent, leaving his hand in hers. The tension leaked slowly out of the car, and as she took their exit he started to quietly hum the first few notes of _Simple Gifts._ In the backseat, Belle grunted, shifted position and immediately fell back asleep.

The gifts in the trunk rattled as they passed over a pothole. Outside, a light rain began to fall as the unseasonably warm weather at last gave in to the humidity.


End file.
